


An Account of the Principal Deceptions of J.H. Watson

by AnyaElizabeth



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Awesome Mary Morstan, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 03:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17841329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaElizabeth/pseuds/AnyaElizabeth
Summary: Yet there is one account above all others which I have censored quite shamefully, willfully, and without an honourable motivation — nor with any particular grace. In my defence, it was not entirely unnecessary, and at the time I was both inexperienced in the field of biography and lacking the honour of Mr Holmes's blunt perspective. I refer, of course, to the case of Mr Jonathan Small and the Agra treasure, the case I entitled, 'The Sign of the Four'.





	An Account of the Principal Deceptions of J.H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the end of The Sign of the Four, with hefty chunks lifted straight from that text and warped to my own wicked ends.

_"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly._

_As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart._

_She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked._

_"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said, 'Thank God.'"_

_"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one._

— Dr John H. Watson, The Sign of the Four

In the course of my chronicling the cases of Mr Sherlock Holmes I have always striven to be as accurate as I can possibly be, for as Holmes himself often remarks, simple reality holds far more intrigue, far more of the fantastical, than anything that might emerge from my humble imagination. An astute reader, however, will have surely realised that as a narrator I am not entirely to be trusted. indeed, anyone attempting to follow up certain of the more interesting characters in my tales might find themselves quite at a loss for leads. Not to say these cases were entirely fabricated — I could not do the great British public such a disservice — but for the protection of the reputations and happiness of all concerned, I was often obliged to become somewhat inventive. I was not always alone in this; Holmes, for all his belief in analytical accuracy, derived great pleasure in discussing with me the best manner to disguise our clients, from preposterous pseudonyms to false character traits to obfuscating and contradictory dates, even elaborate and completely invented histories. I believe he thought that we were playing some great game with our readership; it delighted and amused him to scan for what I'd chosen to manufacture this time, and when he found it he would brandish my manuscript with a whoop, crying: "Oh, Watson, you've done it this time! And with only three words!"

I confess, however, that I have never been entirely comfortable with such fiction. Though I like to think I am not devoid of literary skills, I am first and foremost interested in presenting the miracles of truth, and it made me ill at ease to present such blatant lies next to the very real wonder of my friend's talent, so that the more suspicious man might not believe either. So I endeavoured to be as honest as possible, to confess my obligation to discretion as often as I could, and to provide accounts accurate in spirit, if not in detail.

For the best part, I have kept this vow, and quite well according to some of the persons involved; several have complimented me on my accuracy, and especially upon the honest way in which I report upon the behaviour of my eccentric friend. I have also had the benefit, for some years, of having said friend cast his eye most coldly over my works, criticising all remarks he perceives as deviating from his fiercely accurate recollection. 

Yet there is one account above all others which I have censored quite shamefully, willfully, and without an honourable motivation — nor with any particular grace. In my defence, it was not entirely unnecessary, and at the time I was both inexperienced in the field of biography and lacking the honour of Mr Holmes's blunt perspective. I refer, of course, to the case of Mr Jonathan Small and the Agra treasure, the case I entitled, 'The Sign of the Four'.

I was quite honest about the facts of the case, and more frank regarding Holmes than I had been in my first little pamphlet. The names, appearance and manner of a few of the key players have been changed or exaggerated, but aside from that, I was quite straightforward. No, my principle manipulations were based quite entirely around myself, and my interactions with Miss Mary Morstan.

What follows, though still as fallible as my human mind, is something more approaching the truth. I sometimes like to fancy that you would forgive me for it, dear public, were you ever to read this account. As this missive is destined for the fire, however, I find it unlikely that you will ever know of it. Oh, how I wish you could.

Just as I said in my published account, Holmes landed me at Vauxhall at the end of the case, with a treasure box and an inspector for a companion. And just as I said, a quarter of an hour's drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. 

After hearing that Miss Morstan was in the drawing room, I hastened with all eagerness to see her, for I was quite excited – both by the chase and by the prospect of seeing the lightness of her face as she observed her great wealth.

I recall the sight of her clearly, seated by the open window, with that little touch of scarlet at her neck, every bit as sweet and grave and beautiful as my published descriptions — however modestly she protested them. At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet. My account of her first words, I believe, was quite accurate.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table. 

In my published account, it is here I state that my heart was heavy, for the treasure held us back from each other. The reality, however, was nothing so simple. The weight was upon my heart not so much because I could not pursue her with such a treasure between us — though that did produce a certain sorrow within me — but because until that point Mary Morstan had been serving as a charming distraction from my unhappy state with Holmes. I feared that the end of my acquaintance with Miss Morstan — and therefore the case — would mean Holmes’s return to boredom and despair, and with it I would inevitably return to the role of helpless observer to it, an existence that grew lonelier and more painful by the day. For my regard for the man was blooming, rising from mere intellectual admiration into deep affection, which in turn fuelled the furnace of my helplessness.

Forgive me, dear reader, for I am aware now that in my state of self-pity I thought only of myself, and in doing so failed to recognise the true value of the woman before me. In my defense, even if I had stopped to observe then what I later came to admire in her, I might still have thought it reasonable to terminate what small flirtation we had shared, for I had always known that I would not make as good a husband as I would like. I am not un-scarred by battle in body and in heart, in my habits I am undeniably a bachelor, and my acquaintance with Holmes had changed me even then. I had a reckless taste for following adventure, and with it the just punishment of dealing with the man who led me to it. 

And yet my feelings were more complex still — for a part of me also longed for the dream of a happy, ordinary household with a happy, ordinary woman, and I felt the loss of that dream that night. Oh, what a fool I was! Mary was many things, but she was in no way ordinary.

"I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world," I said, though perhaps not quite so eloquently. "I have brought you a fortune."

"Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, looking at my treasure-box with a wary eye.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure," I agreed. "It is quite a considerable sum. You will be one of the wealthiest ladies in London."

I attempted to keep my voice light, and have no reason to believe I did not succeed. 

"If I have it," said she, smiling warmly, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered, and I fancy I smiled back just as brightly, "Not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson!" said she, and I was more than happy to tell her of Holmes's remarkable progress and the thrills of the night. She listened with shining eyes, and was admirably distressed at my tale of the near-missing poison dart.

"I am grieved to hear that I have placed my friends in such horrible peril!" she said.

"That is all over," I reassured her. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said, but she seemed quite cool and practical about it; I believe she foresaw the kind of troubles such a fortune might bring her, or perhaps the figure of two hundred thousand pounds was more money than either one of us could fully comprehend. "It is certainly a pretty box. Indian work, I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester's poker."

And so the poker was applied, the lock broken, and the lid thrown back — only to reveal the thing as empty.

"The treasure is lost!" said Miss Morstan after a moment. I recovered from my own shock at the sound of her words, and looked up into her smiling face with interest. A moment passed, each of us attempting to divine the feelings of the other in our expressions.

"You seem to be taking it admirably," I said eventually.

"Well," she said, shutting the lid of the treasure-box again, "Of course I am a little disappointed. But at the same time, I cannot feel a sense of loss — how can I lose that which I never possessed? And such a terrific amount of money... it is my experience that such an amount comes with an even heavier weight of responsibility. Indeed, look at how close you came to death just to get it!"

She reached forward and squeezed my hand, smiling.

"No no," she continued, "I confess I am relieved."

And here, I fear, is where the fiction begins. In my published tale, I am almost suave, confident in both my ability and my desire to secure Miss Morstan's affections. In reality, I was plunged into the most embarrassing attempt of romantic communication that I had experienced to date.

"As am I!" I declared, though if I am quite honest I did not intend to make any such declaration on this night, for my head was already at Baker Street, and telling Holmes of the treasure's absence.

But then Miss Morstan, much to my surprise, drew her hand away.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, in more surprise than my ego or my intuition could fathom.

"Because —" I began, quite embarrassed, but determined to follow through upon my statement now that it was out. "Well, because you should have been beyond my reach without it. Miss Morstan, I must confess, I am," — and here I hesitated, as Miss Morstan's face was impossible to read, and I myself was beginning to blush — "As taken with you as it is possible for a man to be. But, I can see from your face that you — that is to say — forgive me, please, for being too forward, I cannot think what came over me."

Miss Morstan, far from being embarrassed or offended, laughed softly.

"No, no, please don't concern yourself," she said. "Oh dear, this is quite my error. What a fool I have been!"

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, both mortified and confused. Had I misread her so grievously? Was my admiration unwanted, for all we held hands and laughed together like old friends?

"Oh dear," she said again, sitting down upon the trunk. After a moment of staring at the floor, she looked up at me and smiled.

"I am sorry, Doctor, for my reaction — it is quite silly. You will think me wretchedly naive, but I had not expected such a declaration."

"Please, if it is unwelcome, we shall say no more about it —"

"Hush, Doctor, please let me explain," she said kindly. "It was not through lack of interest on my part that your pronouncement surprised me; Doctor Watson, you are a fine man, and I have never felt more at ease than in the midst of an adventure with you. But I must confess, I thought —"

She stopped, a delicate flush suffusing her soft cheek.

"Well..." she said. "I hope you will forgive me for such folly, Doctor... but..."

"Pray, speak your mind, Miss Morstan, I doubt there is a thing you could say that would make me think ill of you."

Miss Morstan looked at me kindly, as though she didn't quite believe me, then frowned delicately at the floor.

"Oh, Doctor, it is such a silly thing. It was simply that you reminded me so strongly of an old acquaintance of mine that I was convinced that you were quite identical to him."

"He must have been a singular acquaintance," I said, "To have made you think so poorly of me."

"Poorly?" she said, sounding surprised, though it made perfect sense to me — If a man had engaged in such flirtation as we had so far, and yet not declared any genuine interest or intention when the occasion called for it, then he must have been a crass man indeed. 

"No, I did not think ill of you at all," she said. "Perhaps the best thing I can do is tell you of him — if that is agreeable, my dear Doctor. I think..." She paused. "You should know of it."

"Certainly, I should like to hear it," I said, settling down into a chair, deeply concerned about the strange turn of our conversation. Miss Morstan looked thoughtful, staring across the room with a soft and faraway sadness in her eyes.

"His name was James Cardwell," she began, "And he was the first friend I made upon coming to London, save for some distant but generous relatives who saw fit to take me in as governess, and so help me get established. He was a student and a man of limited means, but as noble a gentleman as you might ever meet, with a great generosity of spirit. He was introduced to me by the young nephew of my first employer — August Ramsey, a queer boy by all accounts, but sweet enough.

"Within five minutes of conversation James and I were firm friends. It seemed to come quite naturally. For six months we went walking together, took lunch in the University grounds and in all the parks of London, and we would talk for hours about every subject under the sun. He was a little Bohemian, a little poetic, but the perfect gentleman, and very handsome, and I fancied myself head over heels in love with him. And indeed, a proposal of marriage seemed quite likely; my friends all declared him to be quite as smitten with me as I was with him. And yet such a proposal never came.

"Eventually, I grew the nerve to ask him what his intentions were. He looked surprised, and then upset, and then he begged forgiveness, for he'd believed I understood his meaning when he told me — and he had told me — that he was following August into the army, and that he hoped to stay a bachelor for life. I was confused, and sore at heart, and so I fled from him. Later, he came to me and said he saw now how I could have easily imagined him to be joking, and that he would marry me in an instant if it was what would please me best. But it was no good; I knew his... Bohemian spirit was at odds with his honourable nature in this matter. I felt sure he would fulfil what he now perceived to be his obligation to me without it bringing him a shred of happiness of his own, and I could not let him do that."

"Well," said I, "I don't know if I should have been so forgiving. The man toyed with your heart most abominably."

"He did not intend it to be so," she said. "He didn't think like you or I might — of romance, I mean. It never occurred to him to see me as anything but a dear friend, and I never gave him cause to think I felt anything but friendship in return."

"Nonsense!" said I, quite angry — both at this man, and at the suggestion that I might in any way resemble him. "To take you out, to share his heart and hear your own, to spend time with you in such a way, he must have known — what fool wouldn't — he must have known and willfully ignored your feelings, for his own convenience! Miss Morstan, I am grieved for you. I can quite see why you might doubt all men."

"Oh, Doctor," she said sadly, "I fear I have not communicated quite what I intended."

And here she gave me a most intense look. I found myself getting even angrier, although I could not justify it.

"Miss Morstan," I protested, attempting to stay calm. "I am utterly in sympathy with your heartbreak. But please, I beg you, do not doubt my affections — if you desired to be my wife, I should have the good sense to count myself a privileged man!"

"Oh!" said Miss Morstan, blushing quite enchantingly. "Oh, Doctor Watson... I should consider myself quite as privileged."

There was a moment of silence, whereupon the full enormity of her words struck us both.

"But," she said eventually, laughing at my face. "If I were ever to accept such a proposal, I should only hear it from a man refreshed and solemn, with at least one night of careful consideration." She paused, looking at me with the oddest expression. "I would like you to be... sure. Indeed, it would put my mind at rest if you would, perhaps, consult your close friend Mr Holmes."

"Ha!" said I, knowing quite well that Holmes would be uninterested in something so domestic. And yet, now that Mary had spoken of him, suddenly I had no more desire than to be alone with him in Baker Street, telling him all about what had just transpired so that he might dazzle me with some deductive clarity. For I was all in a fog, myself, some strange, creeping feeling imposing itself upon my joy and blunting it like a sword against stone. I could see nothing which would give me such a knot of doubt in my breast; though I had blurted out what should have been given full solemnity, had it not been in my mind to secure Miss Morstan's affections? And had I not received every indication that she was interested in return? It was a most happy occasion, and yet some dark and haunting feeling plagued me.

"He will be nothing but obnoxious. But you are quite right, of course," I said after a moment. "You deserve nothing less."

She smiled at me again, and it seemed tinged with sadness still. Troubled by that hint of unhappiness, so inexplicably mirrored in my own heart, I glanced away. I caught sight of the lamplight beyond the curtains, and immediately recalled the time.

"Goodness!" I exclaimed. "I have left a poor Inspector outside in a cab! I will call on you in the morning, if that is agreeable to you?"

"Very," said Mary, rising gracefully. With one final, chaste hand-clasp, I left her in the drawing room, and was headed towards Baker Street in the next moment. I'll confess it was not the most restful of journeys, for all that I had just achieved. Mary's tale had put me in an ill temper, in a manner I could not yet account for.

Holmes and his motley gang of followers had only just arrived when we returned; they were seated about the fire, Jonathan Small looking dreadfully at ease with his wooden leg cocked over his other. Holmes gave me a long look as I entered, frowning slightly — and it was the first occasion I had to be infuriated rather than amazed at his deductive skills. I could tell from the way his brows lowered slowly that he'd noted my discomposure.

However, all was promptly forgotten as I told of the empty treasure-box, and we listened to Small's lurid tale of greed and betrayal. Then within the half-hour, Althelney Jones was leading him away, and I was left alone with Holmes.

Holmes looked at me for a long, inscrutable moment, and then lit his pipe. An interminable time later, when he had still not asked me about that which he had so clearly already deduced, I broke the silence myself by saying to the fire:

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama."

Holmes did not respond. I looked at him; he was staring at the fire with an expression of intense gloom.

"I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods," I said cryptically, intending, I'll admit, to agitate him.

"Yes," he snapped, with a rudeness that was uncharacteristic even for him. "No doubt it is."

"You know why, then?" I said.

"Of course," he said. "Even our good friend Mr Athelney Jones should be able to deduce that one. You intend to be married." And he accompanied his pronouncement with a groan of disgust.

I was deeply offended.

"Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked.

"Not at all," said he, casting me a distasteful look. "I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I ought to place above all things." He smiled bitterly. "I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement."

"I trust," said I, "That my judgement may survive the ordeal."

Then I looked at him, wreathed by smoke, hawk-like features thrown into relief by the flickering of the light. He was staring, almost too intently, at an empty spot of air above the mantle, and his eyes glittered.

We were silent for some little time afterwards until, unable to hold the whirlwind of my thoughts inside, I was driven to speak again.

"And that's the extent of your disapproval?" I said.

"Well," he said, "That and the fact that Miss Morstan did not, in fact, agree to your proposal."

"What?" said I, but before I could protest, he gave me a disapproving look.

"You've bitten a nail down to the quick, a habit most unlike you, and your expression when you entered the room was not one of romantic bliss. I can only assume that either you are unhappy about your arrangement — in which case I cannot help but wonder why you would make it — or that she turned you away."

I must have looked very distraught indeed, for Holmes paused, then offered me a small token of comfort.

"You must know better than I do," he said, "That it is a peculiarity of women that they rarely say what they mean. It is likely she is restraining herself, perhaps because she fears you have known each other for too short a time."

I laughed, somewhat bitterly.

"She indicated that she would be amenable to a proposal from a less exhausted man," I said. "It is not the engagement itself that is the issue."

"Then what?" said Holmes, leaning forward suddenly at the scent of a minor mystery.

I recounted her tale to him, as accurately as possible. Holmes's expression moved slowly from interested, to lazy, to curiously frozen, pipe dangled loosely from his fingers.

"Well?" I said after a moment.

"Well indeed!" he agreed, snapping back in his seat and scrutinising me as though I were the bloodstain from which an entire case could be unravelled.

"And?" said I, after no more information was forthcoming. "What do you make of it?"

Holmes was silent for a moment, before he scowled, brows collecting like storm-clouds above eyes that were stormier still.

"What am I supposed to make of it?" he said, shrugging loosely. "It seems like you shall be engaged to be married before tomorrow afternoon. I cannot congratulate you, as I have explained, but I am sure you shall be quite happy all the same."

"Holmes!" I chided, though I was not quite sure why I was angry with him. "Surely you can at least show some joy on my behalf!"

"Certainly not, and I shall not falsify such simply to indulge your whim."

"Goodness, man, don't you have any human sympathies? Or is it simply that such a domestic matter fails to capture your attention, even when it so intimately concerns a man who calls you a friend. I know how you despise the mundane, but it is hardly so to me!"

"Capture my attention?" said the man, leaping up and pacing toward the window. "Ha! You have my attention now, Watson. You have my attention for being the most singularly annoying person in the whole of London! Is this what you desire?"

"I should prefer just a scant sliver of human regard!" I protested, quite shocked at this outburst. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

"You know my methods," he said with a cruel twist to that expressive mouth. He turned his long, lean back to me.

"Deduce it," he said, in a most peculiar tone, and I found that my blood ran cold. A creeping feeling, quite the same as the one I felt as Mary told the story of James Cardwell, began to overtake my senses. I realised, quite inexplicably, that I did not want to deduce it. I realised, then, why I was angry for no reason, and so keen to tell him all about it and receive his blessing; I knew as well as he that there was some deeper current to all this. Yet at that moment, my mind simply could not allow me to acknowledge what it was.

"Holmes," I said instead. "Holmes, whatever it is, I am sorry for it. But please — tell me what you really think. Tell me what you think of Miss Morstan's story."

Holmes looked at me, defeated.

"You will not like it," said he.

"All the more reason to hear it now, before it can cause me heartbreak," said I.

"It could mark the end of our friendship."

"I am a forgiving man, Holmes. Just tell me whatever it is that is making you behave this way."

Holmes slumped into his chair in a pile of long, thin limbs.

"Very well," he said. "Let me start with the curious incident of Mr James Cardwell."

"It is curious," I agreed. "You think there is more to it than meets the eye?"

Holmes gave a snort.

"I'll say there is, dear Watson. I do believe Miss Morstan was trying to communicate to you that her first love was not merely disinterested in her, but in the fairer sex in general."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean," huffed Holmes, with unreasonable impatience, "He was a sodomite. An invert. Uranian. A sexual deviant. A follower of the Grecian way. They come up with new names for it all the time. Really, Doctor, as a medical man you ought to —"

"I know what you mean!" I said, rather harshly I suspect, though I was not shocked by his frankness: his cases are quite varied and often sordid, and I myself had been the one to set his mind at ease upon discussing them with me. As a man of three continents and several years of Army camp talk, there was very little Holmes could say that would truly shock me — though it was quite possible for him to make me go scarlet, and to beg him to quiet himself in case some onlooker might hear.

Holmes stood with a pointed elbow leant against the mantle, watching me keenly. I turned to the fire.

"Then why should Mary — you don't mean to say she believed me to be — good Lord, man, why?"

Holmes gave a twitching, reluctant smile, and leapt back into his chair in an agitation of limbs. His restless energy would have made me uneasy, had I not already been so.

"There are several possible theories," said Holmes, touching his fingers together. "The first one, the one you understood her to mean, is merely that her heartache has caused her to suspect all men. Who knows what it might have been — perhaps a mannerism shared between you and this Cardwell, something quite innocent but which her mind associates forevermore with deviancy."

"Well," said I, relaxing somewhat, "That is reasonable enough. I am sure I can reassure her on that count."

Holmes's mouth twitched again, but he said nothing. I began to refill my pipe in silence.

A few puffs later, Holmes had not moved, and I found myself whirling to face him.

"And the others?" I demanded.

Holmes tilted his head to the side like a great bird, and surveyed me with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Another possibility is that our cohabiting, coupled with your inexplicable but now publicly apparent regard for me, has caused some little misunderstanding. It is not like the old days, my dear Watson, where men can be comfortable as intimate friends — now, it seems, even an imagined perversion causes a scandal."

I stared at him for a minute.

"Do you really believe that to be the case? Do you think people think —"

"No," he said. I put a hand to my heart, which was fairly palpitating.

"And if they did," he continued, "You needn't panic. Marriage is probably the very best cure."

He sounded bitter. I wondered, for a moment, if he was not as self-sufficient as he claimed, for the look in his eyes spoke of an intense and soulful loneliness.

"Any another possibility?" I asked.

"Only one is left," said Holmes with brightness, although it had the ring of falsehood about it. "Only that perhaps our perspicacious Miss Morstan, in her experiences with Mr Cardwell, developed an instinct about when a man's affections are elsewhere, and was attempting to make you aware of it yourself."

This was the biggest shock of them all — I dropped my pipe in surprise, and fumbled to catch it.

"Holmes," I said weakly, "Surely you're teasing me."

"Not at all," said Holmes, tilting his head up, though his eyes would not quite reach my face. "These are my theories, based on the data you provided; only with more data can come more precision."

"Surely you do not need more data regarding my character," said I, mortally offended, "I am quite evidently not a sexual deviant!"

"And how would I know?" said Holmes, equally enraged although the slight was not against him. "Do you mean to say that sexual deviants know no discretion? I know a hundred cases that have never been discovered, people of highly respected character. Do you perhaps mean that I should be able to divine some madness within you? I have never met a deviant who has appeared more or less sane than anyone else. Do you mean to cite your high regard for women as evidence? I once investigated a man who buggered his page on Mondays, his wife on Wednesdays, the Governess on Fridays, and Lord Marshall any day in between!"

I found myself, quite suddenly, bursting into laughter.

"Surely not," I said. Holmes looked amused at my amusement, and perhaps a little pleased that he had tickled me.

"Certainly," he said. "The man seemed quite happy, and to my surprise it was not entirely at the expense of the parties involved. The wife knew of the governess, the page knew of Lord Marshall, Lord Marshall only knew of the wife, poor man. The governess, however, knew of them all, and indeed, seemed to enjoy their company."

I clapped my hand over my mouth to prevent further laughter that might rouse poor Mrs Hudson.

"But really, Holmes," said I, when I had calmed, "You cannot imagine me to be so inclined."

"I do not ignore theories simply because they offend you," said Holmes, suddenly cold again. "If I were to operate on the assumption that everyone who appeared one way, was that way, I should not get far in the field of detection!"

I sighed heavily and sat down, re-lighting my poor abused pipe. My mind was fairly awhirl with Holmes' pronouncements.

"Holmes, dear boy," I said softly, after ten minutes of silent contemplation. "Which theory do you believe?"

He looked at me, surprised, and then smiled.

"Watson, your reasoning may be poor, but your instincts are impeccable."

He did not answer beyond that, and I was beginning to believe he never would. Yet, after a full ten minutes, he finally spoke.

"I believe," he said, "That Miss Mary Morstan believes our relationship — or perhaps merely your feelings towards me — to be somewhat less than proper. This was not my initial theory, but she clearly believed that your affections were elsewhere, and where else but me? And why else would she allude to me, in such a personal and domestic matter?"

I looked at Holmes; he seemed quite calm. I could barely comprehend his perspective, his lack of emotion. If anyone had insinuated that Holmes was in love with me —

My breath caught quite suddenly in my throat, then escaped in a long, slow sigh of wonder. Was Holmes — did Holmes feel something —

And why, upon that thought, did my heart make such a strange leap?

It made perfect sense to me. His artistic, Bohemian nature — his apparent mistrust of women, so at odds with his deft and gentlemanly way with them. His quoting Goethe. His isolation, more protection than anything else. His disdain for emotion, and his inexpressive secrecy.

And more than that — the way he looked at me in the throes of some dramatic tale, as though he cared only to impress me. The hand at my arm or on my shoulder. The fact that he would never hand me a piece of paper or ask me to hand one to him, and instead read by my side, as though it were the most natural thing in the world —

All the world turned on its head, every moment of our acquaintance transformed into something unfamiliar and grotesque, and for a long moment, I hated Sherlock Holmes with all my heart. 

How could he corrupt the single happiest thing in my existence? Those days when Sherlock Holmes was at his brightest, with his attentions solely for me — they had lost their innocence, and I felt the loss as keenly as a wound. No more his hand upon my shoulder, or the comforting warmth of him beside me in a hansom —

"Oh, Watson," groaned Holmes, his eyes closed, "Oh how I wish you would not write your thoughts so plainly upon your face."

I couldn't reply — my throat would not allow me speech. Holmes stayed frozen, looking tormented as I had never seen him. Then he sat up, and reached for me, and I was so shocked that he had grasped my hands in his before I could react.

"Don't fear me, Watson," he said, eyes bright and shining and his hands tight about my wrists. "Don't think anything at all. I cannot bear it if you will not be my friend — I cannot bear the thought of you shrinking from me, imagining my every affection to be degenerate. It is not so, Watson, it is not at all so."

My heart pounded, and my head was in a fog — I wanted to believe him, but I knew that I had lost something this night, something greater than any treasure. 

But then some part of me, some greater feeling, began to bubble within my chest. A feeling which told me I could gain just as much.

I pulled my hands away, gently.

"Holmes," I said simply. "I'm not going anywhere."

Holmes' eyes widened, searching me for the meaning behind my words, but his search was fruitless, for there was no meaning I could name beyond the simple truth of it. I was not thinking and I was making an effort not to feel either, save for that instinctive ache not to lose him, not to lose my intimate acquaintance with the most remarkable, impenetrable man I'd ever met.

"Good," said Holmes, and slumped back upon the sofa like a man exhausted.

I re-lit my pipe once again, and sucked upon it in silence while my thoughts tumbled like rocks over a cliff. At some point that night, I thought, they would sort themselves out, the insignificant cast away from the momentous — but for the moment I could do nothing but think them all, think of perversion and love and law and feeling and logic and a thousand things that would be, and that might be, and that could never be again. We sat like that for half an hour or so, Holmes with his arm slung over his eyes, so very still that at last I thought him to be asleep.

"Holmes," I murmured curiously, and the arm moved a little, revealing nothing but a pair of bright, wide eyes.

"This man you knew," he said, "Who had a bedmate for every day of the week."

"Yes," said Holmes, guardedly.

"What kind of man was he?"

"Need you ask?" said Holmes, huffing. "He was a wretch. I should not have thought so based on his partners alone, but he only loved two of them enough to treat them well, and used the others quite abominably."

"Two?" said I, surprised.

"Most definitely two," said Holmes. "Obviously, he loved the governess, for he confided everything to her, not just his passions but the details of his life. But he was besotted with his page, quite wildly and uncontrollably, it seemed — never has a servant been quite so bestowed with gifts, nor allowed quite so much liberty. And it was upon his disappearance that the man engaged me. He was quite the wreck."

"And he did not love his wife?"

"He was fond," he said. "And not a poor provider at all. And, of course, he was quite tolerant of her frequent gentlemen callers, an arrangement she seemed quite content with."

"Goodness," said I, and lapsed into silence once more.

"He is not the only man of dual interests I have known," said Sherlock slowly, and I knew at that moment that he'd divined my reasons for asking, though I barely wished to own them myself. "There are clubs, Watson, doubtless you have heard of them, where men of similar tastes may gather, and within them I have seen every conceivable type of relationship a man might have with a woman, and quite a few unique to men. I have seen love and union stronger than the best marriages in England, and I have seen degeneracy and fornication of a most enthusiastic and disloyal kind. I have seen married men who love their wives succumbing to temptation, I have seen elaborate arrangements like the one I described, and I have once seen the most avowed Grecian fall head over heels for a woman and marry her at once. He, for one, looked at it quite spiritually; he pronounced himself satisfied with just a single soul to bond with, regardless of its corporeal shape, and believed that to be the God-given way of things. And they both agreed exactly which statues they would like in the garden."

I was not entirely sure I believed him — he had strong motivations to tell me such a tale, after all — but this list of infinite variety struck me so profoundly that I could not speak to question him.

I could not help but think of my own knowledge of male love — aside from the childish affairs and bonds of boys at school. There had been, I recalled, two men within my regiment, of differing rank and age yet still the very best of friends. They fought together side-by-side, and would have died for each other as happily as for their country. Their indiscretions were an open secret, they escaped discipline by the merest inch, and yet in every other regard both men were upstanding, loyal and true to their regiment, and so genial that some of the more forgiving officers referred to them with affection as Her Majesty's Hoplites.

"It is as clear as day to me," said Holmes, "That men are never one thing or the other. A gentleman might be a murderer, an abusive husband might be kind to his animals, a pickpocket might be the bravest boy in London. We are all full of dualities and contradictions — even I, though I seek to live my life by logic. As Goethe says:

Schade, daß die Natur nur einen Mensch aus dir schuf,  
Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff."1

He flashed me a nervous little smirk. I smiled, a little sadly.

"I have never heard a better description of you, Holmes."

Holmes gave me a bright, flashing smile.

"I grant that am somewhat more mercurial than the average man," he agreed. "I cannot think how you endure it in a roommate."

"Nor can I," I said weakly, a gentle tease, and he seemed gratified by it — as I knew he would. God, how I wanted to please him, even as I was appalled by him. Lord, how much I admired him! If it were indeed possible for a man to be an admirer of women, and yet still love a man — then I did. In Holmes, I did.

Holmes stared at me, and I at him, as I realised the deep and abiding truth within those words. I could not imagine, let alone desire, the acts that Holmes desired; yet, I wanted to, I wanted it to be possible to love him as he loved me. It was all a-battle in my breast, all the glories of love against the greatest censures of society. I could tell from the very flutter of my heart which side was winning.

"Watson," he breathed, and slid off the sofa, falling onto his knees before my chair. His hand reached out to me, and it was quivering like an addict's — I could not stop it. He touched my face, his own so filled with fear and wonder, and I closed my eyes against it, for it was more than I could bear to see the man I'd thought inhuman so transported.

"Watson, tell me —"

"I can tell you nothing," said I, rather breathlessly, "For I know nothing. You are the reasoner here."

Holmes smiled, touching my face with unique delicacy, still trembling before me.

"Reason?" he said, "Ha! It has fled."

And with that his hand turned from butterfly to vice, firm and fierce in my hair as he leant up to kiss me.

I may not have known a thing about my feelings, but I know a kiss, and this one seemed as natural as my first. His lips were nothing like hers, his chest too firm against my palm, but little of it mattered; indeed, I might have felt that thrill that only sin can bring, had not all such tawdry thoughts been eclipsed by the solid fact of kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes was a miracle, a man of such elusive genius, as unbelievable and untouchable as a God — yet here I was, granted the highest privileges of trust, allowed into the sanctum of his heart, because he desired me more than any of his principles and any of his fears. It was overwhelming, even as he slowed, stroking through my hair as though to apologise for his presumption, keeping his chest away as if to give me space to push him back. I did not — I could not — I did not want to.

"Will you come with me," he murmured, too low and holy to be a question, mouth still close to mine as if afraid that I might leave his lips forever. I smiled, heart lighter now.

"You should know by now," said I, quite faintly, "That I will follow."

I cannot truly speak of that which followed. I have tried, but I can find no words to capture the profound revelations of that night: the feeling of a man's hand upon me, the acts that Holmes performed without a qualm upon my person, the acts I returned, no more degraded or ashamed than a supplicant at altar. I would have been afraid, but Holmes was curiously himself, quite as brash and dry as in his daily life — and he was, as in all the things that please him, beset by wild and reckless energy, sparkling and intense as fire. And indeed, I found myself quite different with him than with the conquests of my past, indelicate as I would not dream to be with a woman — and when he was irked by those fumbling errors of intercourse, by those doubts and worries and his own profound affection, with him as with no other I found it all quite riotously funny, and did not feel the need to hold back from saying so.

Lying beside him afterwards, with his sheets most irreparably tangled and a warm haze in the room from our exertions, mingling with the scent of tobacco from his cigarette, he looked at me with keen eyes and said:

"How do you find your fall into sin?"

He was laughing, but he could not fool me now: I saw the quiver of fear in his eyes. I smiled at him, at his elegant limbs spread casually over the bed, and waved a hand.

"If we talk of fornication, I fell into sin quite some time ago," I said.

Holmes stared.

"Doctor Watson!" he protested, laughing, "And here I thought you were a gentleman."

"I am," said I, pretending offense. "I would have married every one of them."

Holmes smiled, and took a drag of his cigarette.

"Of course you would," he murmured, and I could not tell if he was mocking me.

"Save my first," I admitted, and he let out a bark of laughter.

"Don't laugh at me," I protested. "I was young, and so was she — we had no earthly conception of what we were doing."

"And that is where I cannot comprehend the doctrines of religion," complained Holmes, scattering the ash of his cigarette as he gesticulated. "How can sin come from those who are innocent? And how is one particular act of love a sin when others are good and wholesome? Is it purely because of the anatomy involved? Where is the sanctity in a marital arrangement that so often destroys the people who enter into it? It seems quite illogical. No, no, Watson, I shan't have any of it."

"Perhaps they are not evil, but you cannot deny that affairs of the bedroom have brought down nations."

"People bring down nations, Watson, not the acts themselves. No, it is all nonsense, and it will not do."

"Heretic," I said, but I quite agreed with him.

"So," said Holmes after a moment. "You would have married any of them. Yet, I perceive, you have been a bachelor all your life. Pray tell me, whatever went so wrong?"

"Simple things," said I. "Aside from my first sweet kisses with my childhood friend — after which her family moved to India — I have been with five women."

"Only five!" said Holmes, looking at me with teasing eyes. "You were in the army, man! Whatever is wrong with you?"

"Oh, hush," said I, "You forget, I am a Doctor, and as such I am intimate with the dangers of sexual diseases. I never found the girls the other men went for to be worth the risk."

"Pray, tell me then, who was?"

I looked at him, wondering if he was curious, madly curious, or madly jealous. He did a good job of appearing to be nothing at all.

"The first," I said, for I had no objection to indulging him either way, "Or rather, the second — was a girl whom I was courting as a young man in university. With no elder kin to guide us both, we found ourselves becoming quite improper — but I had a love-rival, one who did not plan to go to the Army, a good man who had considerably better prospects. She married him, but not before she told me she should rather marry him and lie with me than be obliged to do both with just one of us."

Holmes laughed, as I had hoped he would.

"And the third?"

"A temptress," I said, "Employed to secure material for the purposes of extortion. I quite repulsed her every action, until by chance she realised she had mistaken me for a married sergeant with similar features to my own. She confessed all with much weeping, which I have come to suspect was not entirely genuine, and when I comforted her — with the most honourable intentions — well, she took advantage quite wickedly."

Holmes laughed. I smiled at him.

"I suppose might have wounded her pride in being such a challenge initially, for I have never known a woman more determined. In any case, she was wild as I had never known a woman to be, and when she was done — I shan't imagine the act was for my benefit — she laughed at me and left immediately. I warned my Sergeant, who was immensely grateful, and that was the end of that."

"The fourth?"

"An Indian girl, most beautiful, whom I long to steal away to England. She came to me, and by that time I was already quite defeated."

"As well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb," said Holmes, and smiled a quicksilver smile. Holmes's pleasure, when directed at me, had always made my heart soar, but tonight it seemed to flutter as girlishly as any maiden upon the compliments of her suitor.

"Quite," I agreed, though I was not entirely convinced I believed the sentiment, considering the fact that a rope might well be literal in our case.

"Well, in any case, she lost interest when her marriage was arranged, and I was relocated. Whereupon I met my fifth, whom I should have married immediately were she not already so."

"Watson!" said Holmes, laughing at me once again. "Adultery, too?"

"She was alone, and he was a wretch, and it was not my intention — oh, but it looks very poor, laid out like this."

"Not at all," said Holmes, convulsing with silent mirth, "It is an apt demonstration of one of your most charming features. I do believe, with all my heart, that you loved them all."

And with that, he touched my hair with an expression of profound affection.

"You do not act as a new lover should," I teased, "Upon hearing of his partner's past affairs."

"No, indeed," said Holmes, looking serious. "But Watson, I am a practical man. I should have been happy to be your first and last, but it would be preposterous to imagine it to be the case. And hardly fair."

"You've had past loves?" said I, attempting to disguise both my fluttering pulse and a note of surprise — with little success, as Holmes' eyes flashed with amusement.

"Love is a kind word for it," he said. "Ugly commonplace little affairs, rather more for the experiment than the pleasure. Let us forget them."

I did so willingly, as I felt quite uneasy discussing Holmes's dalliances with other men — it seemed tawdry to me, deviant, somehow far more perverse than the acts of ten minutes previous, though of course the notion was quite absurd.

We lapsed into silence until presently I began to feel the chill.

"I should to bed," I said. "I have a meeting with Mary in the morning."

"Oh," said Holmes, going still. "And what are you to tell her?"

"Well," said I, "I can hardly marry her."

"Ah," he said simply. "Well, goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight, Holmes," I said, collecting my clothing. Half-dressed, I looked back at Holmes from the doorway — still shamelessly naked, he lay on his back with his head thrown back, his pale skin glowing in the candle-light. He looked sombre, and beautiful, and in all that open and unabashed glory, the most terribly affecting sight I have ever seen.

Escaping my own discomfort, I fled to my room.

I confess that I did not sleep too well that night. The the echo of Mary's words, the enormity of my fall from grace in the eyes of decent society, and the danger of our position — all the thoughts in the world seemed set to come upon me, plaguing me like mosquitoes so that I slept little, and with unpleasant dreams. I was quite glad when the bright sun shone through my window, and I decided I might reasonably get up and call for breakfast. I wondered, however, what I might say to Holmes. The whole world had shifted in the night, shaken up beyond all hope of setting right again, and though our conversation had been as easy as ever in the moments before my departure to bed, I knew only too well how it is to be calm in the warm glow of just-spent pleasure. Whatever was I to say to the man?

I need not have worried, however, as there was no trace of Holmes, and from a crumpled telegram upon his desk I deduced that he was out upon a new scent already. I found that I was somewhat more put out than usual that he had not taken me with him, but I shook off the feeling and rang for breakfast. Once I had sated myself upon Mrs Hudson's excellent eggs, I called for a cab and set off for lower Camberwell.

All through breakfast, my mind had been curiously blank, lulled by routine so that only the butterflies in my stomach and the skittish rapidity of my pulse reminded me that there was anything at all amiss. In the hansom, however, it finally occurred to me that I might have to prepare my words to Miss Morstan, since she was sure to be suspicious of the significant change in my attitude since the night before. I'll confess, for a moment I considered marrying her regardless — but I could not condone it, leading her to believe I could love her and only her, when my attentions seemed so inexorably drawn to Holmes. I could leave Holmes's acquaintance, no more to follow his methods or stand by his side — but the thought made my chest ache as though breathing in a bitter cold. Could I, then, try my best to ignore last night and reassert our previous friendship, for her sake? Discard it all as a slip and pray for forgiveness? My heart knew the answer before I had even considered the question.

If I stayed at his side, I would inevitably be tempted again. Even now, in the cold and unforgiving light of morning, my skin itched for his touch. It were as though some secret barrier had broken deep within me; now I had allowed myself to entertain the idea of Holmes and I in such a manner, I could barely think of anything else. I thought for one wild moment that it must be some perversion, more an illness of the mind than anything else, yet I imagined the face of my dear friend and could not bring myself to loathe it, not for a second.

By the time I reached Lower Camberwell, I still hadn't thought of any speech to give Mary. But as it turned out, I did not require one. The moment she saw my strained expression, she smiled sadly and caught me by the arm.

"Come," she said, smiling at me with kind eyes, "There's a little park to the north. Let us take a turn about it."

Quite lost, I allowed her to lead me to a charming patch of green a few streets from her residence. She was silent as we walked, and so was I, for my voice seemed to have deserted me; only when we found a bench and settled down upon it did the conversation begin.

It was a most singular one.

"I see, my dear Doctor, that you have thought upon my words of last night."

"I could hardly not," said I, and said no more, for that was incriminating enough. Miss Morstan was no fool — she knew that I was not myself this morning, and she alone in all the world could tell what might have caused it.

"I am glad," she said, surprising me, "As I have thought of little else. We seem to be in some confusion, you and I."

"Indeed," said I, looking out upon the trees of the green. It was shaping up to be a fine day; already the sunshine was bright and gleaming.

"No doubt your confusion surpasses mine," said she, amused. "But it has occurred to me that the road ahead is not so unfathomable after all."

"Indeed?" I said, quite inarticulate with worry.

"Yes," she said. "At least, from my perspective."

I was silent, waiting for her explanation. She looked uncomfortable but assured, as though she knew her mind well, and had only to draw the strength to speak it.

"I am not a wealthy woman," she said eventually, "And I never shall be, even with a share of that fine chaplet. I am without family, and my inheritance was quite unremarkable. I am also a governess, that most awkward of positions — a social equal, and yet a servant. I am also obliged to be entirely independent, with none of the security a husband would provide."

"I see," said I, wondering toward what point Miss Morstan was driving, and having an uncomfortable suspicion.

"And you, Doctor Watson, are a man of integrity and heart, a good man in fine form with few vices and a fine profession to sustain you, should you choose to go into practice. You were also more than happy to promise me security and devotion, and I believe you would keep any promise you would give. You would make the best, most dashing and inspiring husband I can imagine, and if —"

She hesitated, then smiled gently.

"If the only price to pay for such a husband is that I must share him with Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am more than prepared to accept it."

I'm not afraid to say that I felt myself colour. To hear the situation laid out so, in the frank, sweet voice of this most remarkable lady, made me ill at ease.

"When I met you, Miss Morstan, my instincts told me you were a fine woman," said I. "And I believe they were entirely correct. A man could not ask for a better wife." I looked at her soft, sweet face, and touched a hand to it with delicacy.

"And it is this that makes me sure that I do not deserve you," I said. "You do not deserve to suffer me."

"It would not be suffering," she said. "Not at all."

"But I am incapable of ever giving you my full attention. And what if you were to meet a man who could? Who worshipped you as though you were his sun? I beg you, please do not settle for me when a better man might have you."

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "You have romance in your heart, but I fear it is nowhere else. I am seven-and-twenty years of age and I have not yet met such a man — if I wait much longer, I will end up an old maid."

"Oh yes, you seem quite ancient," I teased.

"I am old enough to know that a good man with the ability to make an income is wretchedly hard to come by."

"I cannot condone such a lack of hope."

"I like you more and more."

"I beg of you, be serious!"

"I am quite serious," she said, laughing at me merrily. "And in any case, what would I want with a husband who had no other interest save myself? I would have to give him just the same, and I must confess that such a chore would distract me from my books most undesirably."

I was silent. Whatever Miss Morstan might say, however much she smiled her bright smile, I was sure I could not bring myself to promise marriage without the ability to give her fidelity too.

"There are other considerations," she said eventually, with much more seriousness in her face. "I may not have known you for long, but I should like to know you a great deal. Already, I feel we are close friends. Already, I find myself worrying about you. How old are you, Doctor Watson? Old enough to have had plenty of opportunities to meet eligible women. It must be quite queer, to those who do not know you, that you are not already married."

I stared at her, quite surprised at the implications, and the innocent way in which she delivered them.

"I have been unmarried thus far," said I, quite earnestly, "Only because I was in active service, and since then because I have been in convalescence. My acquaintance with Mr Holmes, I admit, has distracted me from courting since my recovery, but it is only him. If I had not met him —" and here I looked at her quite seriously, so that she might understand me fully, "I might well have fallen head over heels for many a woman by now."

She looked at me for a second, no doubt deciphering my meaning.

"Then Mr Holmes must be even more remarkable than I presumed, to keep you so distracted," she said eventually. "And still — I have no doubt that in the eyes of the public, you will be expected to marry soon."

I was not naive to her point. Yet it seemed so cold, to marry for convenience, however high my regard for Miss Morstan. Indeed, the regard seemed to make it all the worse.

Mary seemed to see the turmoil in my heart.

"I would, of course, only be content with a long engagement," she said, "So that we both might make the best decision possible. You might be a romantic, but you cannot deny the sense in that, and I will have it no other way."

With her words, I felt a sense of ease. A long engagement... it seemed to be the comfort I needed, and indeed the only thing I could see for sure in a world as fogged as mine. And I knew that I had met in Miss Morstan a most remarkable woman, a woman I would be sorely sad to lose as a friend — which I surely would if we parted ways now. And part of me — a part of me that has been proved quite wrong since then — still thought that my single night with Holmes was some mere fad, for all it moved my soul. What would I feel if I found that, once my unholy passion abated, I was left alone forever, having lost as fine a woman as I could ever hope to find?

"A long engagement," I said slowly, and quite stupidly, for my mind was all awry.

"Absolutely," she agreed. "After all, no doubt you have been accustomed to providing for yourself alone, and have not the savings for a wedded life."

"Indeed," said I, ruefully, and she slipped her hand in mine. I grasped it like a lifeline, an anchor point in all the wild confusion of the day. I stared out upon the calm blue sky with no words in me. She lay her head against my shoulder, squeezing my hand in an expression of comfort, and in those gentle gestures I felt acceptance and kindness, strength and warmth. In those few minutes, I felt a sense of calm that I feared that I could never feel with Holmes.

Such it was always, with my Mary. I may not have loved her there and then, but it was not long after that I grew to. She was, as I have said, the best woman in London.

After a while she rose, and I walked her back to Mrs Forrester's. The woman herself was there to meet us at the door, with a gleam in her eye and a smile which Mary returned with honest warmth. I bid them both good day, and made my return to Baker Street.

Holmes had returned when I entered our apartments again, and was pacing about in a great agitation with a pipe of his most foul and intense tobacco in his hand. He looked up at me as I entered, and gave me a look of such intense irritation that I felt it like a blow. I sat down, surprised, and watched him rattle around our living room for a good five minutes before I could bring myself to speak.

"A case?" I said.

"A simple one!" he cried. "I shall have solved it by this afternoon, if only I can get some peace!"

I had long since become accustomed to Holmes's strange, wild moods, but today, with the weight of the previous night hanging heavy over us both, it seemed particularly harsh. I found myself quite enraged by it, and after another five minutes of silent agitation on both our parts, I snatched up the morning paper and retired to my bedroom. Holmes did not look up at me as I left.

It was nearing lunchtime when, without warning, my bedroom door swung open and a most pitiable sight hit me: that of Holmes, back bowed, eyes dull, hands twitching nervously at his side and an expression of deepest apologies upon his face, mingling with what I fancied might be a touch of fear.

"Oh, Watson," he murmured, "It is no use."

"Come here," said I, all anger forgotten at the sight of Holmes's torment, and adjusted my position on the bed so that he might sit down beside me. He did so, slumping against my shoulder like an exhausted child.

"Now, what is no use?"

"You," said Holmes despairingly. "Or perhaps me. I should have known it, Watson, didn't I say that it clouds one's judgement? You have shaken me up, and all my pieces lay upon the floor without a hope that I can order them again. How can I, when the very mechanisms of my talent make up the bulk of the mess?"

"You're raving, man," said I, though I knew of what he spoke. But I wouldn't hear it — not now, not when I had come so close to ruining all with Mary for his sake. He could not doubt us now.

"Doubtless," he agreed, dryly, and said no more for quite some time. Slowly, I found myself relaxing against him, calm almost to the point of dozing.

"I have something to tell you, Holmes," I said eventually, with a voice that was heavy with sleep. "I do believe I am engaged to be married."

Holmes leapt up as though my bed had set alight and backed away like a cornered animal, eyes wild.

"Watson!" he cried, before I could explain, "Oh, Watson, I beg of you, do what you like, but don't toy with me like this! Stay with me or leave forever, anything but that! Can't you see, that kind words while you marry another are crueller than the coldest goodbye? Watson, Watson, you undo me!"

He sank to the floor against my door, pressing his wrists to his temples with clenched fists, curled like a dying spider upon my rug. I leapt up and grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

"Get a hold of yourself, man!" I cried, "Have you no reason left in that enormous brain? Do you think that I would have told you in such a way, if I intended the news to mark the end of us?"

"I hardly gave you the chance to tell me any other way," said Holmes piteously, and allowed me to raise him up to standing again. He was flushed and glassy, swaying faintly with emotion, but the hand that reached to grasp my arm was firm.

Holmes has often laughed at my published accounts of him as a man no more affected by emotion than a great and terrible machine. Indeed, it was true that he was private, unconventional, morbid, stoic, variable, disapproving of the softer passions, and quite desperate in his search for objectivity, but no man could know him long without his true heart shining through, and I — oh, what I have seen, on that day and through all the years of our acquaintance. I suspect, though I have never told him, that he might be the most feeling man in all the world.

"Come, man, we will call for tea, and I will tell you the whole tale," I said. I led him by the hand downstairs, and was surprised upon the bottom step to be caught by searching fingers and kissed by trembling, desperate lips.

For a brief moment, he was still, then before my hands could move to touch him he was sweeping past me into the lounge. He busied himself at his desk with his back to me, but as I strode forward I caught sight of the syringe in his hand and knew that he was covering up his recent usage of that wretched seven-per-cent solution.

"Holmes!" I said, "No wonder you are in such a state of agitation."

"Hush," said he, looking calmer now, "You'll let me have this one thing. After all, it has been quite the week. Jones has his acclaim, you have found a wife, and Small receives his just desserts. What is left for me?"

I looked at him, unwilling to speak lest I should confess that he had me, should he wish it.

"Let me tell you of my engagement," I said, ringing the bell then sitting down at our table. Mrs Hudson busied herself with the tea, and I began recounting, as accurately as possible, my conversation with Mary. At the end of it, Holmes burst out laughing.

"What a way with innuendo your little lady has!" said he. "It seems to me you might have secured a dangerously quick woman, Watson!"

"It appears that I am drawn to wit," said I, smiling down at my cup.

"As it should be," said Holmes, giving me a wicked smile, which then began to flicker and fade like a gaslamp running out. 

“But you know, Watson,” he said, “You love her, or you are well on your way towards it, and marriage will only strengthen that. And you will live together, and you not see me as often as now, and you will have no reason not to indulge in all sorts of domestic pleasures together. She may take you away from me after all.”

“Holmes,” I said despairingly, for I knew it could be true - or at least, I knew that I could love Mary. That I could cease to love Sherlock Holmes seemed inconceivable.

“No,” said Holmes calmly, “Don’t try to comfort me, you’ve nothing you can say. No, Watson, perhaps it is for the best — you deserve the things a woman can give you. And if you’ve the patience for me after that, I will count my blessings. God knows I’ve survived on less all these years. Oh, Watson, I scarcely deserve a friend as good as you.”

“Ridiculous,” said I, “You’re the best man in London.”

Holmes looked at me then, face severe as always but hope and passion bright in his eyes. I couldn’t resist the urge to pull him closer by the wrist. 

“It is I who does not deserve what I have gained,” I murmured, close to his lips. Holmes visibly shivered. 

“Hush,” said Holmes, lips grazing mine, “If anyone has heart enough for two people, it is John Watson.”

He drew away slightly.

“And perhaps Mary and I will be fast friends, and we will have all gained treasures from this affair.”

Though I knew Holmes said it only to make light and not with any sincerity, I still hoped with all my heart that this would come to pass. 

"But what of your morning?" I enquired, colouring slightly under his gaze.

"Oh!" he said, in fine spirits once more, "I had quite forgotten it! Oh, what a merry mess I have made. But no matter; if you would consent to share the sofa with me for an hour, I think I should have it all straightened out and ready to present to Scotland Yard before tea."

I consented, and settled down with my leg upon a footstool and a novel in hand, while Holmes arranged himself against me with one leg cast over the arm of the chair and his head thrown back against my shoulder. Here we sat, while all the spinning world returned to normalcy, and my heart was calmed. Aside from Holmes's pleasant proximity, today was an ordinary day, a day in which I was to amuse myself whilst Holmes locked his intellect in battle with a new foe. I had a new ally in Mary, new warmth from Holmes, a remarkable little tale to ruminate upon and, eventually, write — yes, there was nothing more to worry about than that.

"Aha!" said Holmes, scant minutes before his hour was up. "Yes, it was certainly the ink! Oh, excellent, Watson, I have him!"

And with that cryptic pronouncement, he sat straight up, gleaming with all the brilliance of his wit.

"Off to make an arrest?" I enquired.

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, giving me a most intense look, "I think it can wait a few hours."

And then he pounced, fire in his eyes that warmed me just as much, and play-wrestled me to the carpet. A few hours did indeed pass, and most pleasantly, until he sent a telegram to Mr Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and put to rest another ugly little case that I might write about yet, if Holmes consents to it.

And perhaps, one day, I will write an account of all the other grand deceptions in my chronicles of Mr Sherlock Holmes. But for now, all that remains is to cast this one, this document of all my most significant lies, deep into the fire, in the hope that I might get some peace from it.

Strange, but part of me does not want to.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. “Nature, alas, made only one being out of you, although there was material for a good man and a rogue.” Holmes quotes this towards the end of The Sign of the Four, in somewhat of a different context.


End file.
